Show Notes

Not only is Jay’s Place a Pseudopod original, but also the author’s first professional publication sale. PseudoPod couldn’t be prouder to introduce you to this author.

Jay’s Place

by E. Lee McVicar

The road looked like it was there by accident. Turnoff so steep it felt like driving straight into the trees. Houses set far apart, hiding suspiciously at end of long dirt driveways, husks of cars crouched on their lawns. These were not the kind of people who made friends with their neighbors, but that was all right for now.

His place was second from the end of the street, a rocky oval where lost souls could pull a three-point turn and get back to the interstate. The house looked like it was built more recently than its neighbors. It was a little too narrow for its two stories, but the siding was all attached and the roof hadn’t yet shed any asphalt tiles. Jay examined it critically from the end of the unpaved driveway. Even this late in the evening, he had to shield his eyes against the fierce glare of the sun.

“No one’s been in there for a while,” said his brother, “but I just got it inspected and the inside’s actually all right. Hot water works, electricity’s not gonna kill you.” He leaned against his truck, boots crunching in the gravel.

“What’s it need done?” Jay asked.

“Well, once the yard is cleared out, I figure we’ll fix up the porch. Windows are okay but the screen door needs replacing. The rest is for you to figure out. Once they demo that dump next door, I think we may have a chance of selling.” He gestured to the neighboring property, barely visible behind a tangle of underdeveloped trees.

Bug House

by Lisa Tuttle

The house was a wreck, resting like some storm-shattered ship on a weedy headland overlooking the ocean. Ellen felt her heart sink at the sight of it.

‘This it?’ asked the taxi-driver dubiously, squinting through his windscreen and slowing the car.

‘It must be,’ Ellen said without conviction. She couldn’t believe her aunt — or anyone else — lived in this house.

The house had been built, after the local custom, out of wood, and then set upon cement blocks that raised it three or four feet off the ground. But floods seemed far less dangerous to the house now than the winds, or simply time. The house was crumbling on its blocks. The boards were weatherbeaten and scabbed with flecks of ancient grey paint. Uncurtained windows glared blankly, and one shutter hung at a crazy angle. Between the boards of the sagging, second-storey balcony, Ellen could see daylight.

ANOTHER 100 HORRORS, being released by Cruentus Libri Press, contains another piece by NICCOLO SKILL called “Old Friend”.

Your reader this week is Rich Girardi.

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““Thank you for coming,” the usher said and held the door for the latest guest. Tom nodded and mouthed a ‘thank you’ but didn’t feel it in him to say the actual words. A time and place for everything, after all.

Twin dark wood doors opened up to a high-ceiling-ed main room. The windows were stained half the colors of the rainbow. The room was awash in vibrant reds, oranges, and yellows. A splash of green dotted the refreshment table and the faintest lines of blue hung over the altar. A faint musky smell, not quite strong enough to be offensive, wafted out the door.

Clusters of relatives milled about, exchanging the usual family gossip. Tom tucked himself into the corner by the restrooms.”